


No Limit, or All In

by MissViolet



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissViolet/pseuds/MissViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson are playing cards together at the end of All In, and here's what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Limit, or All In

Wilson unbuttons his bow tie and peels it off, loosens the collar of his shirt. He's hot and uncomfortable in his evening clothes and glad the night is over. He spots House sitting at the piano, tinkling away at "Hymn to Freedom." House stops playing when he sees him, stands up, and together, they walk to the poker table, empty but for a few crumpled napkins and scattered glasses. House puts a stack of bills on the table, smiles at Wilson, and they are seated. It is one of those rare moments where words aren't necessary and they act in perfect harmony. House lights his cigar, shuffles the cards, deals them each a hand.

"So Esther can rest peaceful now, huh?" says Wilson. He peeks at his cards and puts forty bucks in the kitty.

"Yeah." House takes a long puff on his cigar, looking more relaxed that Wilson had seen in a long time. Esther had been eating away at him, and the kid's matching symptoms just about drove him over the edge. But now it's like a giant weight is lifted off his shoulders. House is joking, laughing, trying to distract Wilson with facts about the barnacle's penis, but Wilson wins all his money nonetheless. He's on a hot streak, the money doesn't matter to him, but nailing Burman in the poker tournament, taking House's money, he feels a sense of unexpected glee at all his good fortune.

They play a few hands, and House gets fleeced. It's Wilson's turn to deal, but he won't lay the cards down, because he knows House is broke. "I know you're tapped, so don't even pretend. Come on, I'll drive you home," he says.

"I've got the bike."

"It's raining. Come on," and Wilson is surprised to realize he's telling House what to do, and House is listening to him, collecting his tuxedo coat from the back of the chair, and they are walking down the hall towards Wilson's office.

"Let me just get my umbrella," he says, ducking into his office, and House follows, closing the door with a strangely deliberate motion. Wilson is searching his desk drawer for the umbrella, his back to House, whom he knows is staring, and normally he'd feel that hot self-conscious feeling prickling somewhere in the back of his neck but tonight, he wants House to look at him, wants him to see that he's flush with the bucks and dressed to kill. He finds the umbrella propped in the back of his file drawer, extracts it carefully, and turns around. Predictably, House is staring.

"You wear it well," he says.

"What, the umbrella?" asks Wilson, startled. House moves closer, takes the umbrella from his hand and drops it on the desk. "This," he says, fingering Wilson's tuxedo coat. "It looks good on you."

"Thanks," says Wilson, feeling momentarily awkward, and then suddenly, not. He _does_ look good in his tux; he feels good, strong and lucky. And he sees that he has an in for himself, and why not take a gamble - if not tonight, then when? He moves towards House, who steps towards him, mirrors his movement so precisely; neither wants to take that bold first step, yet they both want to be on the other side of the fence.

"House - " he says, as if there's something more, but there isn't, it's just a stall, to draw out the time and give House a moment to back away before he makes a fool of himself but he's doing it, he's placing a hand on House's shoulder, and House is moving not back and away but towards him, he's taking a step closer.

"I want to....I...." and he's losing his nerve, but then he remembers that he's the Poker Champion, and he's cleaned out House, his pockets are full of jack, he's got silver cufflinks at his wrists. If there was ever a time to do it...

"Do it," whispers House, and he looks at him, holds his gaze, it's a challenge, but House isn't quite taking that bold leap; he's still leaving it up to Wilson, who decides that it's enough to push them over the line; he'll take the gamble. He puts his arms on House's shoulders confidently, and then he's pushing him against his desk, aligning their bodies, and finally he's touching his lips to House's, measuring his response, and House responds tenfold, opening his mouth, spreading his legs so Wilson can move further between them.

"You want me," says Wilson, and it isn't a question. He's pushing up against House, kissing him aggressively, he feels his jacket being pulled off, and House is tossing it over his chair, and then he's sitting on the edge of Wilson's desk, sitting, and all Wilson's pads and staplers and trinkets are pushed aside to make room for House's ass. He's not saying anything but his eyes are saying _come on_, and he opens his legs, and Wilson steps between them, and now they can kiss properly. Wilson slips it to him open-mouthed, he doesn't even try for subtlety. He's not slow and sweet, he's hard, fast, and dirty. The kiss is pure pleasure. House's mouth is gaping and his good leg is wrapped around Wilson's ass and thighs, holding him tight. His hand is gripping Wilson's waist almost painfully. Wilson's breath is fast; he's huffing into House's neck. That slow languorous feeling is catching speed, spreading through the center of his body, the heat and desire, the feeling of wanting and being wanted. He's pulling House's shirt away from his body, tearing at the buttons, sliding his hands underneath the fabric, eager to touch bare skin, and when he does, House's soft longing sigh is delicious.

Things are so right, more than right, it's perfect, House is groaning and rubbing his ass encouragingly, but one hand is sneaking down to Wilson's back pocket, trying to ease out his wallet, and Wilson catches him at it, and now he's got both of House's wrists in a vice grip, pinning his hands to the desk, and he whispers _sore loser_ as he presses his body even closer, aligning all their secret places and making House arch up to him.

"You think you're getting lucky tonight?" asks House teasingly, and he's not trying to hide the fact that he's breathless, he's looking right at Wilson, panting.

"I _am_ lucky," says Wilson, and he covers House's mouth with his own, feeling intoxicated with pleasure and success, and with limitless possibility. He's not a gambler by nature; any good fortune that's come his way has always been a result of hard work. But tonight is different; he's on fire, and after taking all House's money, it seems only natural that he should have him pinned against his desk, even as his hands are wrapped around Wilson's waist, trying to force their bodies closer together.

"You're mine," says Wilson, and he's biting at House's neck, marking him, forcing his head back for a demanding kiss. House whimpers under the onslaught; Wilson's hands are everywhere, pulling off his shirt, sliding up his back, tugging at his hair to give him greater access to House's heated lips, forcing his mouth open to make their kiss deeper, hotter. House moans lustfully, a decadent sound that goes right through Wilson's spine, makes his body shiver and his prick ache. Ah, but he wants to possess him utterly, sweep aside his blotter and pencil cup and take House bent over the desk, make him sob with ecstasy as he drives into him. Their kiss grows more heated, more passionate, and Wilson slides his tongue around House's, twining it suggestively, and House keeps breaking the kiss to pant soft entreaties like _Jimmy_, and _fuck, yeah_, and his compliance nearly drives Wilson over the edge, he's got a throbbing hard-on, and all his secret lust for his friend is spilling out in the most intense and erotic way imaginable.

Wilson's sure this is the best night of his life. He can feel House's erection meeting his own, and he rocks his hips rhythmically, spreading sweet sparks of pleasure through his groin. He's got House's shirt half-off, pooled around his forearms, giving his hands full access to his lean, muscled chest. With one hand he pinches at House's nipples, making him draw ragged breaths as he teases and rolls the tight little buds between his fingers. With the other hand he's fumbling at House's fly, trying in vain to open the fancy closure of his tuxedo trousers, and finally House reaches down and unzips it himself, he starts to pull out his prick but Wilson grabs his wrists again, says, "I'll do that," in a hoarse, desperate voice he doesn't recognize. He's sliding down House's boxers, hand finding House's cock, stiff and hot, and when he grasps it, House sighs with pleasure.

Wilson strokes him gently, though he's so eager for what's about to happen, it's hard to maintain control. He waits until House starts to move his hips in time, until his cock starts to leak and throb in his hand, and House's panting kisses grow a little careless with teeth and tongue, and then he says, "Lie back."

"On your desk?" says House, surprised, breathless. Wilson's hand is still but House is still thrusting his hips in unspoken encouragement, trying to make Wilson continue with his delightful stroking.

"Lie back. I'm going to suck you," and House's eyes widen, and his azure gaze is so intense, Wilson can hardly stand it, he wants to look away. Instead he pushes on House's shoulders, encouraging him. House lies back slowly, his head resting the keyboard of Wilson's computer, and Wilson shoves it aside, pulls out his desk chair, and sits down at his desk to blow his best friend.

It's quite comfortable for him; he only has to bend his head, open his mouth, and lower himself, and when he's got House in up to the balls, he sucks him hard, and House cries out. Wilson bobs his head, up and down, sucking tight, tonguing delicately. Who would ever guess that he's never done this before? Certainly not House, who's moaning in ecstasy. He's trying to buck his hips up off the desk, wrap one leg around Wilson's head, but Wilson plants his elbow into the crease of his good thigh, and gently rests a hand on his bad leg. "Stay still," he says, and House settles himself, and that pleases Wilson to no end. He lets House's cock pop out of his mouth and takes a moment to kiss and gently bite his stomach, and the bones of his hips, he tongues his navel, caresses his balls, trails his tongue all over the sensitive head of his cock, licking at the slit and the throbbing vein underneath, just to hear House's luscious moans and sighs of frustrated pleasure.

"Don't tease," says House is a breathy, broken voice, and he's holding Wilson's head, trying to steer his mouth back to his rock-hard cock.

"Quiet," says Wilson, and Houses leans his head back, shifts his hips slightly, but doesn't say another word. Wilson takes him all in again, sliding his lips down slowly, speeding up the pace gradually, and each time he sinks his mouth down, House moans blissfully. His hands are scrabbling in Wilson's hair, running his fingers through the silky strands. Wilson's mouth is deliciously hot and tight around him, and he's sucking fast now, and House is groaning loudly, tossing his head back and forth, legs tensing with pleasure and anticipation. Wilson is savouring him, moaning around his cock as he sucks him off. House is right on the edge, perilously close to flooding Wilson's mouth. At last the sensation is too intense, he can't stand it another second. His whole body stiffens, and he can't feel or see a thing but Wilson's clever tongue, his tight mouth and wet lips, teasing the come right out of him. He bites his fingers to muffle a short sob of pleasurable relief as he spurts deep in Wilson's mouth, again and again, and he sucks every last drop out of him, milks him until he's soft and dry, before finally letting his spent prick slip from his mouth.

Wilson slides the desk chair up to House's head. He's surprisingly unruffled considering what just transpired. His shirt is still smooth and uncreased and not a hair out of place. and House feels a little awkward because he's completely undone; his face is bright red, his chest still heaving, shirt bunched up, pants around his knees, wet cock hanging out, and he's too boneless to even zip up his fly.

"Jimmy..." House wants to say something, the situation seems to call for words, but he can't think of any. Fortunately Wilson leans down to kiss him; he restrains himself, kisses him slowly, but he'd love nothing better but to tear off the rest of his clothes, make him come again and again until House begs him to stop. Instead he puts him together; tucks his cock back into his boxers, zips his fly. House sits up and Wilson helps him, and they are back in the position from where they started; House sitting on the desk, and Wilson standing between his legs.

"Jimmy....goddamn," says House, and that is all he can say about it. He fumbles in his pockets, pulls out a slim cigarillo and a book of matches.

"You can't smoke in here," says Wilson.

"Blow jobs on the desk are okay, though," says House dryly. He slides off the desk, limps over to the balcony, and tries to open the sliding glass door. But he's left his cane behind, and he can't get enough stability on his good leg to have a basis to slide the heavy pane.

Wilson grabs his jacket, opens the door for him, and they both walk out onto the balcony and stand near the dividing wall. House lights up and Wilson puts his jacket back on. Cautiously, he leans closer to House, he touches his hand lightly, and is pleased when House's fingers curl around his own. They stand side-by-side in companionable silence while House smokes. Finally Wilson feels compelled to say something.

"Did you like that?" he asks.

"You couldn't tell?" says House, amused.

Wilson grins sheepishly. "Yeah, you're not one to suppress your feelings. I don't think I'll ever look at my desk in quite the same way."

House doesn't respond, just puffs thoughtfully. He's more relaxed that he's been in ages. Somehow cracking Esther's cold case and saving the kid allowed him to enjoy Wilson's tongue-lashing more than he's enjoyed sex in a long time. Not that he's been getting much lately, but he can't remember it ever being so _good_. He stubs out the cigarillo; he rarely finishes them; just likes having something in his mouth. And that brings to mind Wilson, because he wants to return the favor.

As if reading his mind, Wilson steps closer, slides into House while he's leaning against the wall. He's still holding House's hand, and their lips meet softly. It's unexpectedly tender, and House slides his arm around Wilson's waist, pulls him close.

"I'm so into you," Wilson whispers, laying gentle kisses on his neck, making House shiver a bit.

"I noticed," says House. "For how long?"

"Oh, ages. Ever since I first met you. I just never had the courage to do anything about it."

House is surprised by this revelation. It's delightful to kiss and touch his friend, not to mention the expert cocksucking he'd just been treated to, but he didn't realize it _meant_ something. He'd been disappointed in love; he never thought he'd try again, and yet Wilson, for all their ups and downs, has always been loyal, always there for him. He makes him feel good; they laugh together, and hardly anyone makes House laugh these days.

"Have you always been bisexual?" he asks curiously. He'd seen Wilson with a myriad of wives, mistresses, girlfriends, one-night stands, but never with a man.

"No. It's just you. I'm just crazy about you. I don't even know why." Wilson buries his head in House's shoulder. He's laid all his cards on the table, and it's a little scary. "You're my first," he continues, and something about the way he says it makes House feel all warm inside. He holds Wilson a little tighter, pulling him close so that he can feel that his cock is still rigid.

"Mine, too," he admits, although he's thought about it, while jerking himself, thought about Wilson's body, about Chase's lips, hell, he's even fantasized about Clint Eastwood and Steve McQueen. But he's never thought of men as loving, generous, loyal, unselfish the way women are – except Wilson.

"What about this?" he asks, slipping his hand down between his legs, stroking him, enjoying the way Wilson arches into him.

"Mm, yeah, there is that," says Wilson, and House squeezes his cock artfully, so that he draws a sudden breath, presses himself into House's embrace. House kisses him hot and slow; he's nicely sated, perfectly relaxed, but loving the way Wilson is tensing in his arms, the way his mouth is hanging open as he rubs and squeezes the burgeoning erection in his trousers, until there's a small damp patch at his groin and he's moaning softly in encouragement.

House wants to kneel on the ground, suck him slowly, teasingly, make him come so hard and good that he won't even be able to stand upright. But he can't; it's too rough on his leg. Fortunately there is a solution – a plastic patio chair. He pushes Wilson back against the wall that divides their shared balcony, and drags the chair so he's sitting right in front of him, eye-level with the bulge in Wilson's trousers.

"Your turn," he says, immensely pleased with his plan.

"Someone might see!" says Wilson, apparently more cautious than earlier, when House's loud cries of pleasure could easily be heard up and down the length of the hallway outside his office.

"They might. But it's dark. I'll take the chance," and he tugs at Wilson's fly, unzips it to reveal his boxer briefs. Wilson does not protest, especially not when House fastens his mouth to the fabric stretched over his rigid prick, blows hot breath over it so the warm wet heat spreads all through his midsection. He gasps, and his head falls back against the brick wall.

"That's right, get comfortable," says House, grinning. He pulls down Wilson's briefs, exposing his cock to the night air. It's pointing straight upwards, and he carefully tongues the tip, tasting the fluid that leaks from it. Wilson jerks his hips, and House wraps his hands around his ass, takes the head of Wilson's cock into his mouth, sucking it like a lollipop. He's never done this before, but he knows what he likes, and tries to do the same, and apparently it's working, because Wilson is moaning low in his throat, thrusting his hips, trying to work his cock deeper. House obliges, takes him all in, sucking and licking, making Wilson squirm with pleasure. He's sliding his fingers through House's hair, gently fucking his mouth as the suction gets hotter, wetter, and House moans enthusiastically as he bobs his head. He enjoys blowing Wilson, the feel of his rigid cock sliding up and down between his lips, the way his breath catches each time he takes him deep. And Wilson is loving it, groaning loudly when House sucks him tight, he heaves his ass to force his cock deeper, whispering oh, yeah, take it all, ah, and suddenly his hips are jerking like pistons, he's pulling House's hair painfully. His orgasm starts somewhere between his balls and his ass, rips through him so hard he's actually trying to wrap one trembling leg around House's head, trying to bury his pulsing cock deep inside his hot mouth. He moans ecstatically as the pleasure washes over him, and the come gushes from his prick in great long spurts. House can't even take it all, he releases Wilson's cock when it starts to drip down his lips, and the sight of that is so hot that Wilson grabs his head, forces his mouth to sink down on his cock one last time, even though it's too much, he's already softening, but he just loves the way House looks when he sucks him. Finally his arms slide down to his sides, his body relaxes, and he leans against the wall, weary and satisfied.

"Come here," he says to House, who is wiping his mouth. House stands up, limps toward Wilson, who takes him in his arms, kisses him tenderly.

"You're really good at that," he says, laughing easily. It seems as if they have been together forever, that the comfortable feeling of his friend's lanky body so close to him is familiar, although it's brand-new.

"Mmm, thanks. I aim to please," says House, and he presses himself closer, so that Wilson can feel he's half-erect, which gives him an idea. "Get against the wall," he says, trying to change their positions. "I want to do you again."

House just laughs dismissively. "I'm too old, Wilson, I can't recover that fast. You've got to give me some time."

"I'm doing this. I want to. Now up against the wall," he insists.

"You're such tomcat," says House, and he kisses him, hot and open-mouthed, with lots of tongue. Wilson is utterly sated, but he feels his heart skip a beat as he returns the kiss. "Insatiable," says House, and he caresses Wilson arms, his lower back, he's pulling him close, lightly grinding against him. "But no, you're going to have to wait, at least until we get home."

"Fine, I'll drive," Wilson responds, and he's unabashedly eager as he steers House back through his office, grabs House's discarded jacket and cane, and hustles him over to the elevator. He keys into his Volvo with a haste that makes House laugh, and when he pulls out of the hospital parking lot, he's got one hand on House's thigh.

"Relax, I'm not going anywhere," says House.

"I know," Wilson answers. "I just like touching you." He's hoping House will be ready for another round by the time they get to his place. He pulls up to the townhouse, parks the car sloppily. House keys in and Wilson follows eagerly. But House keeps walking, right into the bedroom, and Wilson hesitates, looking at the living room sofa.

"You can't possibly imagine I'm letting you sleep on the sofa. You're with me," says House from the hallway, jerking his head towards the bedroom. Wilson grins with pure happiness. He's already unbuttoning his shirt as he follows his friend to bed.


End file.
